


I take the parts that I remember (and stitch them back together)

by Roccolinde



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Compliant, F/M, Multi, Post-Canon, This is not a fixit, a story of grief and hope, the dead stay dead, the politics stay nonsensical, the sexism stays blatant, this IS a story about love and loss and rebuilding, unconventional relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22026022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde
Summary: Jaime died in King's Landing, but he left a piece of himself behind. Those who loved him best are left to pick up the pieces, leading to a marriage between his lover and his oldest friend for the sake of his child. It's only the beginning. A series of connected ficlets about grief and ghosts and building love in the aftermath of loss.
Relationships: Addam Marbrand & Brienne of Tarth, Addam Marbrand/Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister & Addam Marbrand, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 88
Kudos: 121





	1. The First Time They Spar

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle in, darlings, this is going to be long.
> 
> This is… an interesting fic, or really an interesting series of connected ficlets that come from prompts. Two of them were posted in my Odd Socks collection and will be posted here as well, when they come up chronologically. Well, roughly chronologically. I suspect the timeline will bounce around based on prompts, but the first few ficlets at least are there to lay the groundwork. The universe is based off of a fear I had, while the end of s8 was airing, that Brienne would end up being pregnant and we’d get some disgusting plotline where she’s literally responsible for Jaime’s posthumous redemption via his child; my brain immediately decided to ask how I would make that a more palatable story, and apparently “Brienne meets Jaime’s childhood friend who offers to marry her for the sake of the child, and a relationship based on a quiet mutual respect slowly flourishes.” And why would I write that? Except six months later I still _wanted_ it, and doing so via a series of <1500 word ficlets around other writing seems manageable. 
> 
> Secondly, I’m going to talk about the tags and the relationships here a little. If you’re 100% on-board for this nonsense, you can skip it. If you’re less certain, hopefully this will give you a clearer idea of whether this fic is for you.  
>  **This is not a fixit**. Jaime is dead, the politics are still nonsensical, I’m still trying not to scream about how fucked up it is that every female character is dead or isolated by the end of things. The only change I make is the rules re: marriage and the Kingsguard, which does not contradict canon but is a shift from the status quo.  
>  **This is a story about grief.** It means there will be moments that Brienne (and Addam) are angry, times where the pain seems oppressive. But I will not be bashing Jaime’s choices--I think that as shit as the script was, the performances in the show make it abundantly clear that Brienne understood why he went to King’s Landing and it wasn’t as simple as “I don’t love you as much as I love my sister”, and the events of 8x05 must read through the lens that Jaime is clearly passively-suicidal. The Winterfell Courtyard scene is where he died, it just took awhile for his body to catch up. If you want Jaime-bashing, this isn’t the story you’re looking for.  
>  **This is also a story about love**. Love between friends. Love that is lost. Complicated, not really romantic love that slowly builds a marriage. All of these are true, all of them are valuable. Brienne and Addam are… they don’t have sex, for various reasons, but there are moment of physical affection--they share a bed, they hug, sometimes they kiss. It might go a little further than that, but it comes from a desire for physical intimacy rather than a great sexual passion. (If someone wants to write the Great Sexual Passion, I’m a well-known fan of all variations of my GoT trifecta of Jaime/Brienne/Addam so...)  
>  **This is a story about complicated relationships.** I struggled with how to tag this--I’m sure there are people who will be annoyed by the Jaime/Brienne tag, but it’s a story about their relationship and its repercussions--Brienne does not stop loving him, and he remains a strong presence in her life. I labelled both Brienne/Addam and Brienne & Addam because they fill a weird little grey area between the two. There will almost inevitably be some queer subtext in the Jaime and Addam dynamic, because that’s just who I am as a person, but as of right now the only POV character is Brienne and so I’ve stuck with Jaime & Addam. 
> 
> Thirdly, the title comes from Richard Siken's [Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48158/litany-in-which-certain-things-are-crossed-out). The first prompt I wrote for this universe came from this poem, and the title came down to this (which is less appropriate in the wider quote) or "This Is The One Thing Season 8 Spared Us But I'm Doing It Anyway" so...
> 
> Lastly, I do accept prompts for this universe (or anything, really)--it’s easiest to reach me via Tumblr asks for organisational reasons. Whether it’s a scene you’d like to see, a quote you think fits, anything that strikes your fancy can make a good prompt. My only request is that if you want it to be for a specific universe, _please_ specify.

Move, move, parry, shift, move, _Brienne, I_ , **strike**. Back foot, pivot, _when did you last have your moonblood_ , **strike**. _After the war, we’ll_ — **strike, strike, strike**. Her eyes burnt in exhaustion and unwept tears as she thrashed the training dummy without thought, all elegance gone as she pushed it all away, narrowed her world to her body and her sword, unable to completely forget that neither was entirely her own any longer.

“I’m sure it’s quite dead by now,” drawled an amused voice, some hint of the Westerlands scratching at her already raw heart. She spun around, spotting a red-haired man leaning on the wall at the edge of the training yard. Handsome, she thought, unable to muster any feeling for the observation. She has known handsomer, has learnt to not be quite so habitually defensive in the face of beauty. “You’re Lady Brienne, are you not?”

“ _Ser_ Brienne,” she spat.

The man smiled disarmingly and bowed. “But of course, _Ser_. I can’t say news of my cousin’s knighting you was much of a surprise. He spoke very highly of your skills.”

_Jaime_. She can’t— She can’t _crave_ him like this, the mere mention of him setting longing off deep in her gut.

“You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid,” she said. “You know who I am, but I can’t recall your name.”

The man pushed off the wall, moving towards her; Brienne had bedded a lion, surrounded herself with wolves. He was neither. A hawk, perhaps, intent on prey, but as he stopped before her he gave a smile that was… distinctly human.

“Ser Addam Marbrand,” he said. “We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting, though I’ve heard much of you.”

The rangy man before her bore little resemblance to the mischievous child of Jaime’s tales, save for a glint in his pale blue eyes, but she was inclined to trust him all the same. Or not _distrust_ him, at least, which in King’s Landing was unusual enough.

“What do you want?”

If Tyrion had sent him, she’d send the little bastard down the nearest flight of stairs. He’d had the audacity to apologise to Brienne when she’d arrived south, when all he’d had to do was do _nothing_.

Ser Addam laughed, a surprisingly mirthful sound. She would not have thought him the type. “A spar against the commander of the Kingsguard, perhaps? I’ve been terribly unchallenged of late.”

“Perhaps you ought to have fought the dead at Winterfell then, Ser Addam. I assure you there was no lack of challenge there.”

It was an insult, but also a question.

“Ahh, yes,” he said. “Jaime left King’s Landing in all haste, I did not know he was gone or why for over a fortnight. He was always impulsive, but I never understood why he went north.”

“He gave his word,” Brienne said, replacing Oathkeeper in her scabbard and grabbing two tourney swords from a nearby rack. She tossed one to Addam, who caught it easily. “On three.”

They fought, slowly at first as they evaluated the other’s skills; he was graceful and quick, and had clearly learnt the basics from the same swordsman as Jaime had. It was—it was not so similar as to be fighting a ghost, but for a moment he felt closer than he had since the night she last saw him. The last time she would ever see him. Her attention wavered, just long enough for Addam to disarm her.

He dropped his own sword instantly. “Are you well?”

Brienne shook her head. “Well done, Ser Addam. Perhaps we will do this again, but not now. I have—”

“He rang the bells.”

It was a blurted confession, one that made her already roiling stomach contract and her mouth water.

“Pardon?”

“Jaime. He rang the bells for surrender. Given… given what resulted, it has been decided this will not be recorded, but… I believed you of all people had the right to know.”

“Why should I have the right?” Brienne asked; her limbs were oddly numb as she contemplated the new information, wanted to rage and cry that for a second time he had tried to save the city and none would know.

“You will bear his child, will you not?”

Her knees wobbled at that; she thrust the tourney sword into the dirt and leaned against it.

“Secrets travel fast in King’s Landing,” she said, as levelly as she could. “I only confirmed it this morning.”

Addam shrugged. “You kept touching your stomach, even as we were fighting. I have sisters, it’s a tell I know well. I came to speak with you, to try and understand what had made him break free—”

“Promises,” Brienne repeated.

“Love,” Addam countered. “I came for answers, but when I suspected you were... “ he nodded towards her stomach; realising her hand was laid across it, she dropped her touch away. “I thought you ought to know the truth. Very few people knew the Jaime I did, but by all accounts you were one of them. That is all we have now.” He gave an ironic smile. “Well, that and the babe, for you. Jaime would have been—”

“I know. We talked of it. After the war was done.” The memories came too fast to push away, and her voice cracked as she admitted, “I thought he would be alive to see it.”

“I am sorry, truly, for your loss, ser,” Addam said. “May I escort you to your quarters?”

She wanted to tell him no, uncertain whether she could mask her pain that far, but just as much she wanted to tell him yes, to cling to whatever scraps of insight he could give, to be hoarded jealously against the slow erosion of time. She would forget, she knew, piece by piece until the Jaime in her mind was nothing more than a poor reproduction. She nodded, a tiny movement of her head that took all of her willpower.

Addam took the tourney swords and offered her his arm as if she were a lady to be escorted, and when she looked at it in disdain he gave a rolling shrug of his shoulders.

“Even a commander is allowed weaknesses, when nobody is looking.”

She smiled and did not take his arm, but the gesture was well intended at least. They walked towards her rooms, saying very little aside from small stories of Jaime. She cannot bear to face the rest, not yet, but the tale of the stolen pie makes her laugh, and Addam nods seriously when she explains how first they met.

“Do you think he was happy, to be with her in the end?”

They were turning the final corner to her quarters. She hadn’t meant to ask, was not entirely certain she wanted to know the answer. But Addam, perhaps, understood something of it at least, and the words had burst from her lips when she least expected them. Addam considered for a moment, and she wondered if he would lie and how—a “He only loved you” was clearly untrue, but she knew that he had not left out of _desire_ to.

“No,” Addam finally said, quiet and contemplative. “They were many things, over the years, but I don’t think happy was ever one of them.”

He had been happy in Winterfell. Happy with her. She had hoped for that for him, at least, in the days she had waited for news of his death. She pressed her lips together to keep from saying more. They reached her door, and Brienne stopped and turned to face Addam.

“Thank you,” she said. “For your honesty.”

Addam nodded. “If you need… if you need someone who knew him, good and bad, to talk to, or— A shared grief is easier to bear than a solitary one. My door is always open to you, Ser Brienne. Jaime said, once, that I would like you a great deal.”

Brienne laughed despite the weight in her chest. “That does not particularly sound like Jaime.”

Addam shrugged in admission. “I believe his words were more along the line of ‘Addam, the woman is stubborn as all seven hells and a pain in my ass, but you ought to see her with a sword.’ I drew my own conclusions.”

They shared a small smile of understanding at that, and Addam bowed low.

“Keep well, commander. Until our next meeting.”

Brienne inclined her head. “And you, ser,” she said, hesitating only a moment before adding, “Until our next meeting.”


	2. Second Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: If I ask realllllly nicely, will you write Brienne and Addam's second meeting, please? :-D

The sept where Jaime had been laid out was small, near to the Red Keep but obscure enough that the event had been as private as possible. Or so Tyrion had assured Brienne, the night she had invited him to dine in her quarters and told him of the babe. Of course, she’d _also_ told him never to speak Jaime’s name in her presence again or she would resign her position and return to Tarth immediately; whispered promises and dreams of a life after the war were not marriage vows, and the Lannisters had no claim on Jaime’s child. _Brienne’s_ child. The man had nodded, sadly, and Brienne had hidden her shaking hands beneath the table so he did not see.

Still, she’d remembered the location of the modest sept. Jaime—his body had been gone by the time she’d arrived in the capital, no doubt returned to Casterly Rock as the beloved golden lion, a convenient figurehead one final time; she hadn’t had the courage to ask, only recorded his story in the White Book and hoped he would be remembered for more than his family. That had been before she’d known… her hand trembled against her stomach as she stepped into the sept, silent and near empty. _Near_. 

Even a destroyed city was large, and Brienne had been busy—she’d given very little thought to Ser Addam since their impromptu sparring, and in the following fortnight their paths had not crossed. (She had not, in truth, allowed herself to give him thought, had not given herself time to _breathe_ lest it all collapse.) But he was there now, head bowed as he stood before the statue of the Warrior; she wondered if he was a religious man, or simply one seeking the same answers that had driven her to the last place Jaime had been. Ser Addam looked up, inclined his head in acknowledgment when he saw she was there, and turned away to light a candle at the foot of the Warrior.

There were no echoes of the man Brienne loved, _loves_ , in this room—the green in the stained glass in the high-set window did not capture the light in his eyes, the pale grey stone did not carry his vibrancy. But she could not bring herself to leave, and so she moved to the first statue. She prayed to the Crone for guidance, to the Smith for support as she played her role in this broken world, to the Stranger for she was as alone as she had always been. She apologised to the Maiden for not coming sooner. Short prayers, perfunctory thoughts as she circled the room. 

By the time she arrived at the Warrior, Ser Addam had moved away. The statue was tall and set on a dias as the others had been, and the candle at its base flickered. _Warrior welcome him and bring him peace_ , she thought, though she had no real belief; it was easier than to think all the words which clawed at the corners of her mind, about honour and duty and and the cost of them both. She lit a second candle, watched as the wax melted and dripped, braced herself for what came next.

She barely spared a glance for the Mother, aware that the precarious hold she had on her emotions would slip if she did. She needed the Father, not for his judgment or his protection but because… 

His statue was much the same as it was down the length and breadth of Westeros, a bearded man of firm expression. She held herself with dignity, refused to look away. _Father,_ she began, _Father, he was a good man. He deserved to know. He deserved—_ her hand was on her stomach, as if to shield her child and offer it in the same breath. She blinked away the tears that threatened to fall. _He deserves—_

Her thoughts were interrupted by a low, deep keening that echoed off the seven walls, a sound of such pure, distilled grief that she could hardly breathe for the ache of it; it took several moments to realise the sound echoed in her chest not from familiarity but because it _came_ from her, all the pain she had not allowed herself to feel swelling until it could not be contained. She had a passing, hysterical thought that it was much like steam from a kettle, and the tiny chink in her defenses—

She _shattered_. 

She had no memory of it afterwards, only Addam’s story that he’d been about to leave the sept when the noise had started, how he’d had turned in concern only to see her collapse to her knees before he could reach her, how she’s struck the statue with her fists until he’d pulled her arms away, how she’d screamed. She only came to awareness some time later, her knees aching from the stone floor and her hands scraped raw, her eyes and throat burning; Addam’s arms were still around her shoulders, the only thing that kept her upright as the exhaustion hit.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, though she did not yet know what for. “I’m so sorry.”

“My quarters are nearby,” was all he said. “We’ll get a drink in you before you return home.”

He helped her to her feet, out of the sept, down the street. _He’s strong enough_ , she thought, the voice in her head near cackling, but she was too tired. She was so _tired_ , so numb to it all. If people stared as they passed, she did not notice, all her energy in putting one foot in front of the other until they arrived at a small house that had escaped destruction. 

“My rooms are upstairs,” Addam said. “Do you think you can—”

“Yes,” Brienne said, though her legs still ached and shook. She managed though, and was escorted into a small room meant to entertain guests—comfortable chairs, a table laid with tea things and a decanter of wine. She watched Jaime’s friend move around the room, shooing a cat from one of the seats before motioning for Brienne to sit down. She continued to examine the room as she did. 

“This is…”

“Domestic for a knight?” Addam guessed, and she nodded. “The Red Keep has not always been a friendly place these last few years. A place to go was advised. I didn’t spend much time here, but after—” he gestured out the window, where much of King’s Landing was still in ruins. “It’s better than a tent among the rubble.”

He made her tea, offered her some soup, and then sat in another chair and said nothing as he waited and watched. _Patient_ , she thought; not the waiting game Ser Goodwin had taught her, meant to exhaust her opponent before she struck, but genuine _patience_. Brienne drank and ate until she began to feel her strength returning, mopping up the last of the broth with a heel of bread.

“The babe…” she began, when the bread was gone, “the babe quickened, this morn. And I had no one to tell, no one who…” 

She turned to stare out the small window, though there was nothing of interest outside of it, and folded her trembling hands into her lap. The words poured forth, a confession she was compelled to make, if only so it stopped echoing in her mind. 

“He’ll be a bastard. The King will legitimise him, or her, but it will always be—people will know, and they will be cruel, and…, I do not have the courage to face this alone, but I have no choice. I cannot—I love it already, is that strange? Because it is a final bit of good Jaime brought to this world, but also…” The wounds on her hands stung as she clenched them into fists. “Because it is mine, to protect. To care for. It is not how I expected to feel, I am not… _maternal_. I am not—not suited. But this child… it does not seem to know that, and it grows. And so...”

“Not strange,” said Addam, and she risked a look at him. He was regarding her with such gentle patience that she shifted beneath his gaze, and breathed deeply. 

“I went—” she stumbled, “I went to the sept because I had… I know he’s gone, I _know_ it, but I can’t—we’ve spent so long apart over the years, more often than we spent together, and it feels as if our paths should cross again. It’s foolish, but I felt I might be closer to him there, that I might not be so totally alone in my joy and my fear, but…” her voice cracked, though the tears stayed away. “He _is_ gone, truly gone, and I am.”

Addam reached out to take her hand, squeezed it gently. He would tell her, later, of how he’d sat the final vigil himself, how quiet it had been, how he’d half-expected it to be some strange jape until the moment the Silent Sisters had escorted the body away. But for now they sat in silence, until the pink tendrils of sunset filled the room. 

And she was not entirely alone. 


	3. The scene where Addam proposes to Brienne and she has Complicated Feelings?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: The scene where Addam proposes to Brienne and she has Complicated Feelings?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was supposed to take us through to the wedding, and yet somehow...

The wounds on Brienne’s hands had scabbed over, the dark red-brown catching her eye as she went about her daily tasks an unwelcome reminder of the sept, of— She moved to the water basin on the sideboard, slipped her hands into the tepid water; it softened the scabs until she could rub them away, the skin beneath pink and raw, tiny beads of fresh blood welling up where it had not healed enough. She wiped them away with the cloth as she dried her hands, retook her seat at the desk to continue writing duty rosters. It would scar, she knew, moreso now than if she’d let it heal in its own time, but it made it more tolerable, now, not to see it. 

The duty rosters were complete and she’d moved onto the contenders to fill the empty places in the Kingsguard when there was a knock on the door; she glanced out the window to realise that it was well past midday, and it was likely Pod with food and a disapproving look that she’d missed a meal yet again.

“A moment,” she called, capping the ink and pulling a jerkin on—there was very little change to her shape as yet, but she’d found herself chafing at anything too close to her body, as if the truth might be revealed to a discerning eye. 

It was not Pod at the door, but Addam Marbrand.

“Ser,” Brienne greeted him. Calmly, neutrally, as if she could not feel a flush creeping onto her cheeks as she remembered the last time they had spoken, three days before. He’d been _kind_ , even though his own grief had lurked in his eyes, and she’d thought—but no, there was always a price to kindness, here. “If you’ve come about the position with the Kingsguard, names were to be put forth by yesterday evening.”

The man gave a small smile, a hint of… _something_ lurking behind it she could not identify, and inclined his head. “They were, and I have. That’s not why I’ve come. May I come in? Or we could take a turn around the gardens, if you’d prefer.”

Brienne glanced over her shoulder, some long-buried voice that sounded suspiciously like her septa scolding her for the mere _idea_ of allowing a man into her quarters when she was unwed, as if that was truly the largest concern an unmarried, pregnant knight and commander had to face. 

“Come in,” she said, stepping aside and gesturing with one hand. “I don’t have long, I’m afraid. Small Council meeting this afternoon.”

Addam shifted from foot to foot. “Oh, of course. I can come back later, I didn’t mean to presume—”

“Sit,” Brienne directed. “It’s not as if I’ll be any less busy until we’ve filled the places in the Kingsguard. No list of merits will tell me what sort of _men_ they are, and I won’t—” she shrugged. “Please, sit. That’s not your concern.”

He did, glancing at the table and seeing the papers spread out there. 

“The contenders?” he asked.

Brienne took the chair next to him. “Yes. I’ve barely started.”

“I could…” he hesitated. “You’ve not spent much time in the south of late, I could go through the list and advise you of any men to avoid?”

She had no reason to trust him, beyond a tangential connection to—

“Very well,” she said briskly. Call it curiosity. 

Addam grabbed the stack of papers, quickly reading the names on each sheet and sorting them into three piles. She watched him, trying to find some answers in the minute expressions on his face—a grimace here, a twitch of lips there, a furrowed brow at a name that gave him hesitation. It did not take him long to be done—faster than she would have been, at any rate. 

“These are men I don’t know well enough to judge,” he said, knocking the smallest pile with a knuckle. “Of the ones I do, these are the ones I’d consider. Some of your contenders are stronger than others, but they are decent men.” Another knocked knuckle. “The third pile—they are men who enjoy hurting others. Some might be good fighters, and I have no doubt they’d serve the king with loyalty, but—”

“I don’t want them. Knights have no business being cruel,” Brienne said, then asked, “Where is your own name, Ser Addam?”

“The unknown,” he replied with a shrug. “I would hope for consideration, and I believe myself both competent and not cruel, but what villain does not seem himself a hero?”

Brienne nodded; it was a measured choice, perhaps deliberately self-effacing, but presuming nothing. “In my experience, it is just as likely a hero sees themselves as the villain.” 

“And few people are purely either.”

Brienne nodded in agreement, and added a moment later, “Thank you, for your insights. Now, what brought you here?”

Addam blinked twice, as if the question had startled him. 

“Another time, perhaps,” he said. “I would not take more of your limited attentions.”

He rose as if to leave, and Brienne rose as well, effectively blocking him in; though he was near in height to her, the proximity meant his head tilted back to meet her eyes, and there was… that same _something_ she’d seen earlier, a sort of exposed vulnerability that had her ask again, “What brought you here, ser?”

He stepped sideways, avoiding the chair, and sighed. 

“Sit, please,” he said. “This seemed much more—sit.”

Brienne complied, and Addam’s hand flexed as he reached for his sword—not to draw, she could read that, but as if it were a talisman.

“Is something that matter?” she asked.

“I…” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Tradition would have me speak to your father—”

_No_. A flutter of panic filled her breast. “Ser Addam—”

“I know,” he said, and there was some beseeching agony in his tone that stilled her words. “I would not… I have been unable to stop thinking of the other day. Your dilemma, and how it may be… I know I am not the man you love, and that my presence might be naught more than a painful reminder of this, and I wouldn’t presume—”

She said the only thing she could think of.

“I won’t wed for _pity_.” 

He looked stricken. “Not pity, ser. The circumstances are… I would not ask if they were different, but it is not _pity_. A mutual loss, perhaps. The knowledge that he would—he cannot be here, but I do not think he would wish for you to face this alone.” He couldn’t even say his name, the twist of his lips echoing the one in Brienne’s breast; her eyes filled with tears. “Ser Brienne, I am not a poor match. I am of good standing, heir to my house. I am not cruel and would not demand anything from you except an attempt at a true alliance, for the sake of the child. A hope for friendship, in time. There are many reasons to believe we could build a satisfactory—”

“We’ve met twice,” she said, barely keeping control of her emotions. 

“Which is very little, but more than some are granted,” he replied. “Shall I tell you what I _do_ know of you? You’re good with a sword, which tells me that you are tenacious and do not give up even when your muscles ache and exhaustion hits. You love, deeply, and give your loyalty absolutely to those you believe in. You try to hide these things, but you also refuse to apologise for them. Are not all of these more useful to the pursuit of a good marriage than beauty or inheritances? I’ve had many a pretty woman trotted before me like an obedient pony, but temperament is what matters, and I think we are of a similar kind.”

She meant to laugh, but the sound tangled with the emotions crowding her throat and what came out was a guttural choking sound.

“That is your argument? You are not terrible and so I should wed you, and hope that the protection of a man’s name is enough to spare my child a lifetime of derision?” 

She knew she was being unkind, could recognise the logic of such an offer, knew that it was not made from— Anger swelled in her, until she found herself wishing to hurl whatever object was near at hand against the wall, wishing to scream that none of this was fair, it wasn’t supposed to be _this_ , she’d been happy, they’d been happy, they were supposed to—

“Leave, please,” she choked out. “Just… leave.”

He nodded, gave a small bow. “I truly— I am sorry to have hurt you, ser,” he said, his own voice cracking with emotion. “I will demand no more of your time.” 

The inkpot shattered against the door when he’d gone, the black ink soaking into wood long before she could bring herself to move.


	4. Bronn has ambitions, and when he acts on them Brienne starts re-thinking where she stands on a few things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> luthienebonyx said:  
> Prompt for your B/A 'verse: Bronn has ambitions, and when he acts on them Brienne starts re-thinking where she stands on a few things.

Brienne made it to the Small Council meeting, though she knew her heart was not in her protests against frivolous expenditures; the king would allow the matters he accepted to pass and the ones he didn’t to fail without her input, but usually she was determined to make her voice heard. Today her mind was otherwise occupied as jokes were made about brothels, and discussions of a statue to commemorate the fight against the Night King as if three quarters of the city was not still rubble, as if they had not had this conversation a dozen times before. Ser Addam’s arrival, his almost absent-minded offer to help her, the careful weighing of each Kingsguard contender, the earnest grief as he—

“Ser Brienne, how does the Kingsguard recruitment proceed?” asked the king.

She was too practiced to startle, but she cleared her throat to give herself a moment. “I have a shortened list, and will speak to each of them before testing their skills. The roles should be filled by the new moon.”

“All fourteen?” Bran asked, a strange sort of smile on his lips as if he knew Brienne’s never-voiced objection to expanding the Kingsguard ranks.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He nodded. “Very well. Once that is settled, we will make public the changes of the vows.”

Those in the castle knew, of course—gone were the vows to forsake all titles and lands, the vows to never marry or produce children, replaced instead with a vow to uphold the good of the realm even over the good of its monarch. Only Brienne and King Bran knew the reasons for the last, a secret they had never discussed; it had been that, more than anything, that had made her take the role of Lord Commander. Jaime would— She forced a small, polite smile and inclined her head. A smile that promptly fell when Bronn opened his mouth.

“Once that’s out, we should marry,” he said. “I quite fancy that _Evenstar_. Sounds posh.”

She stared at him, waiting for the words to reform into some order that made sense. 

“You have Highgarden,” she finally said, voice flat.

Bronn shrugged. “Two titles are better than one. Besides, I’d fuck you better than that pretty boy ever did.”

“Bronn—” Tyrion warned, his voice pitched low; Brienne barely heard it over the rushing of blood in her ears, the digging of her fingernails against the fleshy heel of her palm.

“What?” asked the man, shooting Brienne a leer she suspected was meant to be _seductive_. “It solves her little dilemma, she won’t care if I fuck whores, and we’d have fun. No shame in that.”

It was so patently _absurd_ that she began to laugh. “I’d rather bear a bastard,” she said, and at Tyrion’s snort turned her attentions to him. “I certainly hope that this was not your suggestion.”

She wouldn’t put it past him, a sort of apology that was meant to appease his own feelings of guilt, as if she could be so easily bought. Perhaps Ser Addam—but no, she could not reconcile the man’s palpable grief and desperation with such deception. There was nothing but instinct behind the thought, but she had long learnt to trust such feelings in battle and it was the only weapon she had.

Tyrion shook his head. “Not my idea. You ought to consider it though, if only for—”

She rose to her feet, loomed over the table to meet his eyes. “If you finish that sentence, I will draw my sword, Lord Tyrion,” she growled, every muscle tensed. 

“Ser, I only meant to say—”

“Tell me, did your brother ask to be released?” 

Brienne barely recognised her own voice, as cold as a Northern winter; no raging storm, but the cold, immovable certainty of ice. She had not asked before, had refused to even contemplate it, had drawn strength from her certainty that whatever had driven Jaime had not been… had not been a desire to _die_ , however sure he was that he would. But if he had asked, if he had begged and pleaded to save his sister… She had not asked, but found that she needed to know.

“No.”

A lessening of the tension, but no release.

“Then you will forgive me if I do not feel sorry for thinking you behind this attempt at a fifth betrothal.”

She saw the moment he understood her words, his body freezing and a fleeting look of genuine grief on his face.

“Ser Brienne—”

“Your regrets mean nothing to me,” she said. “I do not know how to state this more clearly. Your _opinion_ means nothing to me. Your—”

“Lord Commander,” interrupted Bran. The king. She fell silent, retook her seat. Ignored Bronn’s muttered insinuation that she ought to consider his offer. 

The meeting continued, but it was clear that it held none of their attentions. It was Ser Davos who suggested they reconvene another day, citing some need to speak with the shipbuilders. A convenient lie. 

“Please stay, Ser Brienne,” said the king, as the council stood to leave. “I would speak to you of the Kingsguard recruitment.”

It was clearly an order, no matter how it was phrased as a request, and she nodded and remained seated. Pod sent her a sympathetic look from his position behind the king, and she gave her once-squire a reassuring smile. It would be fine. She glanced down, surprised to see pale half-moons pressed into her palm despite the practical shortness of her fingernails.

When they were alone, the king cleared his throat and Brienne lifted her eyes. 

“Ser Addam has spoken with you?” he asked, and she felt what little blood still left in her face bleed away. 

“Your Grace…”

Of course he knew. He must have known all along, arranged for this to—

“He requested an audience this morning,” Bran explained. 

“Is this… is this why you changed the rules? For the Kingsguard?”

Bran shrugged. “I see some things of the future, not all. Ser Addam’s request surprised me as much as it surprised you. I changed the rules because there is enough Stark in me to remember my father’s words, Commander. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_. And you are ours. It seemed ridiculous to demand those closest to me isolate themselves, and so I give them—I give _you_ a choice. What you do with it is only for you to decide.”

Brienne swallowed hard, tried to smile. She had not—there was no decision to make. She had to believe that, because if she didn’t, if there was and she…Beneath the table her fingers brushed against the armour that covered her stomach. If there was a choice and she chose wrong, whatever wrong might be, she would not be the one to bear the brunt of it. The tremulous attempt at a smile fell away, and she stood.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, bowing slightly. Pod went to move, as if to come closer, and she—no, she couldn’t—she raised her hand. “Stay with the king, Ser Podrick. I’m perfectly well.”

*

Despite her shocked state on her previous visit, Brienne remembered the route to her destination easily enough; a knock on the door and she was admitted, gestured upstairs by the old woman who owned the house. Brienne thanked her quietly and climbed the stairs, knocking on the interior door she knew led to Addam’s rooms. 

When it swung open, she was struck silent by his haggard appearance; he quickly masked it, standing straighter and swiping one hand over his face as if to brush it away, but it was impossible to unsee—the hint of red around his eyes, the pull of his mouth. The hair so clearly raked by anxious hands. Evidence of a stronger grief than she had allowed herself to acknowledge. 

“Lord Commander,” he said, stiff but polite. 

“Ser Addam. I came to apologise, for my earlier behaviour.”

He laughed, a harsh bark that sounded unnatural in his mouth. “There is no need to—I behaved terribly, ser, despite my best intentions. There is certainly nothing to apologise for, on your part.”

“May I come in?”

He nodded, stepped back, offered her a drink. The same cat was curled on one of the chairs, a brown tabby who stretched and stared at Brienne before vacating the seat, and she perched carefully on the edge of the chair. Took the hot tea when he handed it to her, her fingers wrapping around the cup as if to warm them. Addam said nothing, merely sat in the other chair, his fingers tapping a silent beat against its arm. 

She hated how much she could think here, with another person’s breath and sounds from the street below to dull the gaping maw of silence that filled her quarters in the castle, all the lives that might have been echoing through empty chambers. Hated how he knew neither too little nor too much, and waited for her to speak. 

There were a thousand questions in her head: what kind of man he truly was, and how he’d concluded a marriage was suitable, and what it would mean, the expectations and commitments, and… 

“You meant your offer?”

“I did.”

“Would you expect me to resign from my position?”

He looked surprised. “Never.” 

“Demand my titles?”

“I have my own.”

She nodded, expecting nothing else. Her fingers tightened around her cup as she turned to look at him fully.

“Then we should wed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny, they were supposed to have a long conversation leading to this moment--and they'll have to have it later--but when the moment came, Brienne had to trust her instincts. Apparently. This is why I maintain characters have minds of their own.
> 
> And just a reminder that I'm writing these ficlets via prompts, so if there's something you'd like to see [pop over to Tumblr and let me know.](https://firesign23.tumblr.com/ask) Or leave it here, but I'm much more likely to lose it in the shuffle.


	5. a Brienne/Addam wedding (or a nice pre- or post-wedding scene. Or all of the above.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > pretty--thief asked: Per your prompting, I hereby prompt a Brienne/Addam wedding (or a nice pre- or post-wedding scene. Or all of the above.) 
> 
> Oh look, finally something that's NOT unrelenting grief. It only took five chapters.

It was… odd. The hours after Brienne’s declaration. It was very easy to say that they should marry, and much more difficult to grasp what this would mean; the conversation stretched out, neither of them completely certain what it was that needed to be asked, but some shape of their marriage-to-be began to emerge from the winding thoughts. Their respective commitments and how to balance them, how they would dissuade doubt of the child’s parentage when she was three moons gone and only been in King’s Landing for six weeks. Around and around, tentatively feeling out the terrain before them. She assured him that his place in the Kingsguard would not be earned or lost due to their connection; he assured her that his father was in robust health and he did not expect to inherit Ashemark in the foreseeable future, and that when he did there were plenty of competent family members to manage the day-to-day runnings.

“Do you have any bastards I should be aware of?” she asked. It would not change her decision, but it would be good to know of potential claimants that might benefit from exposing the truth of her child’s parentage.

“No.”

“Are there any likely to emerge?”

“Ahh, no. Not—” He gave a small shrug. “I can account for everyone I’ve lain with long enough to know it impossible.”

_Were there many?_ she might have asked, under other circumstances. Instead she nodded. “And you will tell me if that changes?”

“It won’t be a concern.”

“You cannot—” Oh. “Men?”

“On occasion. It is more…” He shrugged again, as if it was unimportant. “I would tell you, if there was someone else. As a matter of respect. I don’t think it likely.”

_Else_ , as if… Trepidation niggled at her as she wondered whether she’d misunderstood his offer, of asking nothing. She twisted her fingers, the pressure grounding her. 

“I won’t—I cannot… I know it is a duty, but I do not think I could bear… _that_. Not yet.”

He blinked, then reached out as if to lay a hand on her knee before thinking better of it. “I told you I would expect nothing, save cooperation and an honest attempt at friendship if you could bear it.”

She studied him for a long moment, trying to find answers in unfamiliar features.

“You are an odd man,” she finally said, startled when he smiled.

“And you’re an odd woman,” he replied. “A remarkable one, but odd.”

She waited for the sting to come, but whether it was the lack of judgment in his words or her having grown into her skin, all she felt was amusement. She _was_ odd, but it was not as if she could be anyone else, and she didn’t particularly wish to be; if she’d been someone else... if she’d married Ser Humphrey and set aside her sword she would not have saved Sansa, if she’d married Ser Ronnet she would not have served Renly. If she had not done both, she would not have— 

Grief was a funny thing, the way it would gently lap at your feet in one moment and crash down upon you like a wave in a storm in another. If she had not served Renly, served Catelyn… if she had not saved Sansa, fought the undead… if she’d not done those things, if she’d not fallen in love with Jaime, if she’d— 

“Brienne,” Addam said, a gentle command. It was the first time he’d called her by her name, some distant part of her realised. She turned to look at him fully, and saw his understanding expression. “Perhaps we can discuss this more tomorrow,” he said. “The Seven know there is much still to do.”

***

A sennight and as many discussions later, they were to wed in the Godswood. The King had, in one of his queer moods, insisted that it be there and not a sept—Brienne was grateful, uncertain she could speak her vows before the Seven, given everything, and it was not as if any in attendance cared where the words were said. She wished her father could be present, but given the already difficult nature of events, they did not have time to wait for his arrival from Tarth. Instead she would walk unaccompanied, the wedding witnessed by a handful of people she knew in King’s Landing—she hadn’t had the heart to keep Tyrion from the event, aware he was Addam’s only family near enough to make the journey, and Podrick and a few men from Winterfell who had chosen to remain in the south. 

The irony of such a small wedding did not escape her; Jaime would have wed her, after that first night or any other, but they had both been so certain there was an after the war, and… she’d wanted, they both had, something more than hastily exchanged words in the midst of preparations and repair, a chance to be publicly loved and celebrated with those they loved best. Not ostentatious, neither of them had wanted a spectacle, but a chance for those flung far away to be there too. No secrecy, no shame. And now…

Addam was seated on a bench near the path that led into the garden; he didn’t see her at first, his head tilted back to catch the first warmth of spring sun. He was freshly-shaven and dressed in a richly woven doublet in his house colours, dark grey with burnt orange details, a sense of control in his lanky body even as he was at ease. This far away she could not see the slight lopsidedness of his smile or the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed, but she knew them to be there. She moved closer; he must have heard her coming, dressed as she was, but it was not until she was close enough to cast a shadow across his face that he opened one eye.

“Ser,” he drawled, “I wondered when you would arrive.”

“Second thoughts?” she asked, torn between standing tall and hunching away; she knew she hardly looked like a bride, fripperies set aside in favour of looking like _herself_ , but she wondered whether it was the right decision.

He shook his head and reached up, knocking his knuckle against her breast plate. “A bold choice.”

He was dressed far more in the spirit of a wedding, but there was no hint of derision in his comment.

“Blue,” she explained, then lifted her arm to where her rose-coloured undershirt was peeking out, “and pink, for Tarth. A Maiden’s cloak felt rather…”

“Of course.”

“I won’t have many chances to wear it, after today.” She had considered and discarded so many options, but none of them had meant as much as the armour she’d worn for years, so much of her history wrapped in its metal. “I can—”

“No, no,” Addam said, rising from the bench. “It suits you.” Then he gave her a small, knowing smile and leaned in as he dropped his voice, “The lions are a particularly nice touch. My cousin was not a subtle man.”

Brienne laughed, truly laughed, for what felt like the first time in moons, and took her betrothed’s arm as they headed into the Godswood. The guests were assembled, the septon was disgruntled, and the king smiled at her as they took their positions. _Thank you_ , she mouthed; whatever came of _this_ , she had not been able to forget Bran’s words, their subtle reminder that no matter her grief she need not isolate herself from those who cared for her. 

The ceremony began, the septon’s prayers drowned out by her own thoughts—the sunlight on the trees, and the water in the distance, and the subtle reassurance of the man beside her—until it came time to bind their hands. She recognised the shape of the calluses that brushed her own, felt a strange sort of peacefulness at the commonality. He squeezed her hand lightly, and she met his eyes; the secret smile he gave was enough for her to find her voice.

“Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone…”

***

There was a small feast, after the wedding, and she changed into a tunic and breeches for comfort before joining. The event was more informal than Brienne would expect from a noble marriage, which was—absurdly—what this was, but there was laughter, and music, and a demonstration of fighting styles from each of the seven kingdoms and several places further afield—it was different than seeing the styles in battle, and Brienne found herself making notes for the training of the Kingsguard as she watched. 

She grew tired earlier than she might have once, one of the few signs of being with child that she’d experienced, and the flowing drink began to remind Brienne of another feast. The memories had not… they were there, of course, she would not want them not to be, but they had not been so omnipresent as to taint the day. But whatever small part of that crossed her face was noticed; Addam placed his hand on her arm, gave her a small smile, thanked the guests and made their excuses to retire. Under other circumstances she would have chafed under his attentiveness, but as she dragged herself from the hall she was simply thankful for his presence of mind.

Very little was said as they made their way through the corridors, but it was not an _uncomfortable_ silence, not the way she’d once imagined any wedding night of hers would be; they were friends, or on their way to becoming friends, and that was enough. 

With so much of the castle still destroyed, they were to share chambers, a bed. It was a matter of practicality, and more convenient than him keeping his quarters in the city, but not without questions.

“I can put a roll on the floor,” he said, when they had made their way to what had been Brienne’s rooms. “It’s better sleeping arrangements than many I’ve made.”

She looked at him, then the stone floor. They were both soldiers, first and foremost, knew the value of a night in a real bed.

“Do you snore? Kick?” she asked bluntly, unwilling to allow sentiment to colour her words. Sentiment here was… dangerous. Exposing in a way that other things had not been. 

He shook his head. 

“I’ll take the side nearer the door,” was all she said, unlacing her tunic. 

He undressed behind a changing screen, emerging in sleepwear remarkably similar to her own, and ensured the door was locked before he slipped into bed beside her. 


End file.
